


but we dream in the dark for the most part

by Kaylin881



Category: High Noon Over Camelot - The Mechanisms (Album)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Background Poly, Canon Trans Character, Cultural Differences, Culture Shock, Gen, Not A Fix-It, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, canon-typical cannibalism in future chapters, help i made myself sad thinking about symbolism, incredibly niche headcanons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:15:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25558705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaylin881/pseuds/Kaylin881
Summary: Mordred and his daemon come to Camelot, bringing with them dreams of light. But for all their careful preparations, the reality of life in the Pendragons' town holds many surprises.
Relationships: Arthur & Mordred (High Noon Over Camelot)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 40





	but we dream in the dark for the most part

**Author's Note:**

  * For [consumptive_sphinx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/consumptive_sphinx/gifts).



> This was originally going to be a birthday present for consumptive_sphinx. I cannot write to deadlines. The title is from Hamilton - "The Room Where It Happens".

When Seren settles, it both is and isn’t a surprise to Mordred.

It’s expected, in that they’re older than Saxon children tend to settle. By Morgan’s best guess, Mordred was around six years old when she found him, and that was almost twelve years ago. He’s lived far longer with the Saxons, at this point, than he ever did with the Wastelander family of his birth. And then again, it’s unexpected, in that neither of them notices the moment of change. Mordred doesn’t often pay attention to Seren’s shape so long as she’s something small and easily hidden, which she is more often than not.

It started back when they were first brought to Annwn, Mordred curled up tiny in Morgan’s arms while Seren curled herself up even smaller in his lap, a mouse cringing away from the curious gaze of Morgana’s snake daemon. At the time, they weren’t old enough to follow the bitter arguments over whether they should be allowed to stay, but they could both tell that _something_ was wrong.

Small and scared and very nearly alone, surrounded darkness that had not yet taken on the comforting familiarity of home, there was nothing they could do about it but hide. If they made themselves small, forgettable, overlooked, then maybe no-one would think about them for long enough to be angry that they were there. It’s a strategy that’s worked this long, combined with the fierce protection of Morgan and Gibel. And what began as a strategy has become the habit of a lifetime. Mordred is seldom without a tiny companion clinging to his hair or scurrying to hide under his clothes.

Seren has been experimenting with winged shapes for the last few years, while around them their Saxon peers settled one by one into their adult forms and responsibilities. A few birds, but mostly tiny bats and tinier insects. Small enough to go overlooked, to be safe even flying a foot or more above Mordred’s head, further than most of his adopted siblings will dare. Their favourite shape for comfort, though, has been that mouse—large enough to pet, soft enough to be worth it, and still small enough for safety.

On the night when everything changes, Mordred sits apart from his adopted family, just close enough to the fire that his eyes, long adjusted to the darkness of Annwn, can make out what he’s holding. Seren is a fuzzy moth, barely visible in the dim, smoky firelight as she swoops in tight figure-eights around his head.

When he’s been still for what Seren considers too long, she flutters down to sit on the tarnished piece of metal Mordred has been turning over in his hands. It’s a thin little thing, a worn badge in the shape of a star. He holds it as though it weighs far more than it does, and at the same time as though it could shatter with a single wrong move. 

“You’ve been staring at this thing for hours,” Seren tells him, patting the sheriff’s badge with a tiny foot. “It’s not going to change if you look away.”

“I know.” Mordred worries at a jagged edge with his thumb. “But...” He trails off, deliberately, and Seren finishes the thought for him.

“Everything else will.”

She crawls from the badge to Mordred’s hand, clambering around until she can sit in his palm. “It’s not going to be easy,” she tells him. “But I’ll be there with you, the whole time.”

Mordred sighs, tucking the badge away so he has both hands free to hold Seren. “We’ve already decided, haven’t we?” he asks, looking at her new shape. “This is...”

“... _us_ , now.” Seren nods with a bob of her antennae, answering both the question he asked in words and the one he didn’t. “We’re going...”

“...to Camelot,” he finishes in a whisper. “Camelot.”

Standing outside Camelot’s walls, the noon sun making him squint even after more than a week of acclimating to the light of the upper level, is even more intimidating than he imagined when he pictured it from the quiet darkness of the fireside. They say Camelot is the biggest settlement for weeks’ travel around the station, maybe the biggest anywhere. Looking at the size of the place, Mordred can believe it.

He was prepared for the size, the way it stands bold in the middle of the rusty desert, ringed in by fortifications and with brick buildings rising even higher above them. He wasn’t prepared for the _noise_. Back home—no. Not home anymore. Back in Annwn, among the Saxons, silence is safety. Make too much noise in the dark and you announce your presence to anyone listening. It’s better to stay quiet, stay the hunter and not the prey.

Camelot can be heard from almost a quarter-hour’s walk across the wastes. Mordred would know; he’s been hearing it get louder as he forged through rusty sand towards the main gate. Now, up close to the walls, he’s starting to pick out individual sounds from the din. The clatter of machinery, the ring of hammer on metal, a constant moving clatter he can’t place but guesses must be the noise of people rushing about in the heavy boots the Wastelanders wear.

The guard at the gate has some kind of canine daemon Mordred hasn’t seen before, the same rust-red as the desert. She bares her teeth at Mordred just as, on the opposite side of the gate, her human reaches for his gun. Part of him cringes at the distance between them, even though he knew to expect it. Things are different up here in the light, he reminds himself.

“What business in Camelot, traveller?” the man calls.

Moment of truth. Mordred pulls down the scarf covering his mouth, coughs once, and replies in the deepest voice he can manage at this volume, “My name is Mordred. I’m looking for work.” To his relief, the words come out in the Wastelander accent in which he rehearsed them.

And just like that, he’s in.

Seren stays hidden under Mordred’s hair—he’s growing it out, and it’s in the awkward stage where it just brushes his collar—as he makes his way through the streets towards the town hall at the centre. The noise of the town feels like a living beast as it swells and surges around them on all sides, threatening to swallow them.

Mordred’s field of vision narrows to the clocktower at the far end of the street, a straight shot from the gate. He ducks and dodges around people and daemons without needing to look, a skill that’s not just commonplace but vital in the darkness of Annwn. Shouts of alarm assail his ears, and he picks up his pace, not wanting to get caught in an altercation before he’s even had the chance to present himself to the rulers of Camelot.

After the bright, tumultuous chaos of the street, it’s a relief to step into the relative quiet of the town hall and out of the sun’s fluorescent glare. A solid two-thirds of the seats around Camelot’s infamous round table are occupied, but Mordred’s eyes go straight to the trio at the far side of the room.

The Pendragons. Just as famous as the town they won from the grip of the Stone clan more than a decade ago, and rightly so. Mordred hasn’t met any of them since he was a child, doesn’t know if he ever met all three of them, but as a group, they’re unmistakable. Two men and a woman, all wearing copies of the same star-shaped badge burning a hole in Mordred’s pocket.

The woman, who must be Guinevere, snaps her head up to pin Mordred with her gaze as he enters, hacked-off red curls bouncing around a face with sharp cheekbones and sharper eyes.

“Come in or go away,” she orders. “You’re blocking the light.”

As he steps further into the room, moving to the side so he’s no longer in front of the door, Mordred notices that the darker-haired of the two male sheriffs has a bird daemon perched on the back of his chair. It’s watching him with the same sharp focus as the woman, and he wonders which of them it belongs to. From his new vantage point, he can see two more daemons lying tangled together on the floor behind the Pendragons: a lioness and a brownish canine, probably some kind of dog.

One of the sheriffs, a bearded man with a mane of tawny hair, stares at Mordred with the same golden eyes as the lioness. For a brief moment, his expression is curiously pained. Then he shakes his head, wiping the emotion away as though it had never been, and clears his throat.

“Welcome to Camelot, traveller. I’m Arthur, and I’m the sheriff around these parts—along with Lance and Gwen,” he adds, indicating his two companions. And, if Mordred believes the rumours, lovers. “What brings you here, son?”

For one long, horrible second, Mordred goes still.

He was sure no-one would recognise him; he’d even thought a moment ago that Arthur had seen the similarity in looks and dismissed it, what—maybe he misheard. Or maybe it’s just a thing they say in Camelot, and it doesn’t mean anything. Either way, he needs to come up with a response _now_.

“My...” He stops, swallows, tries again. Got to get the accent right. “My name is Mordred,” he says, voice shaking, concentrating hard on matching the Wastelander accents around him. “I’m looking for work.” 


End file.
